


Mrs. Norris

by ByCandlelight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-07 23:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11634654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByCandlelight/pseuds/ByCandlelight
Summary: How Argus Filch came to Hogwarts.





	Mrs. Norris

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [subwaywall](http://archiveofourown.org/users/subwaywall/pseuds/subwaywall) for editing!

Argus Filch was never permitted to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a slight for which the magical world was never forgiven. It was the first of many insults that would forge the embittered Hogwarts caretaker that students so knew and loathed.

Unlike most children, Argus never suffered from bouts of accidental magic, a fact which was to his parents at first relieving and then concerning. A Healer was brought in, and by the time Argus was three, the diagnosis was clear: he was a squib. 

Ineligible for magical schooling, Argus was enrolled as a muggle. But he never fit in. Although unable to practice magic himself, he clung to the notion that the magical was by definition the superior. He came from magical parents, that had to mean something, didn’t it?

His bigotry was a childish way of coping with a world that did not want him and had no place for him. It also barred him from acceptance in the Muggle World, but he didn’t belong there, anyway. He belonged at Hogwarts. Although the origin of Argus’s disdain for them was unclear, his muggle classmates could sense it, and thus despised him.

And so Argus Filch found another reason to hate muggles.

***

Having dropped out of Muggle school at eighteen, the soonest that Argus’s parents would allow, Argus was in need of a job. Unwilling to look for one in the Muggle world, he was left with the sole option of working in wizarding world, where he was drastically under qualified.

For a while, he did odd jobs, although nothing paid particularly well--certainly not enough for him to move out--despite the needling of his parents.

But now, for the first (and arguably the last) time in Argus Filch’s dismal, dreary life, he was going to get lucky. He was walking home from another failed job interview (we just can’t hire someone who has to do everything by hand!) when he happened to glance at a small pealing fixed to the window of a tiny shop.

Parker’s Persnickety Sweets it was called--an odd name to say the least, almost as odd as the fact that just beneath the store’s name and nearly as large was a notice that read:

Absolutely No Magic On the Premises, Including Kneazles

“How odd,” thought Argus Filch. But he was also intrigued, and so walked inside. Although the shop was almost painfully neat, that didn’t change that fact that it was very old and very much in need of renovation. The floorboards were warped and stained in places; the ceiling was cracking, and the door groaned as it opened and closed.

There were shelves of boxed sweets--mostly things that Argus had never heard of--as well as a counter carrying concoctions that had been presumably prepared on-site. Behind the counter was a stooped aging witch with thick glasses, reading the Daily Prophet. No one else was in the store, and Argus wondered how the shop could afford to hire, because it did not appear to have many customers.

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat, and the witch behind the counter glanced up to meet his eyes. 

“And what can I do for you dear?” her voice was high pitched and grating.

He cringed and felt a surge of annoyance at the condescension in her tone, but he managed to push it away without too much of a reaction.

“I saw the sign on the door,” he began, “About the job.”

She observed him for a moment, before responding, “Aren’t you a little young to have a job. I mean, shouldn’t you still be in school?”

Argus cursed his short stature and youthful face, “I’m 22, ma’am.”

“Hmm,” she replied, not looking entirely convinced. “And you know that you can’t use any magic on the premises. Not a simple--”

Getting impatient, Argus tried to interrupt her, but she shushed him and continued.

“No levitation, no apparation, not even a change-making spell--do you understand? And don’t think I won’t notice if you do. I can always tell. It affects the flavor.”

At this point, Argus was somewhat convinced that his prospective employer was halfway insane, but he desperately wanted a job, and, silly as it may seem, this was one for which he was uniquely qualified.

“That won’t be a problem,” he stated with certainty, and then, gritting his teeth, “I’m a squib,” he admitted, with slightly less animosity than was his usual.

Her face brightened, “Oh, well that’s all right then. Be here tomorrow at 9:00. For a trial period you understand.”

And so Argus had a job. For the first time in a long while, life was looking up.

*** 

Argus never got a satisfactory explanation from Mrs. Parker as to the magic ban on the premises, but he did find out how the shop--which rarely saw more than two customers a day--remained in business. Apparently, Mrs. Parker owned the land and was able to pay for her own living expenses as well as any shop-related costs out of a cozy inheritance from her deceased uncle, who had owned a successful magazine.

Although the shop was a drain on her resources, it had belonged to her late husband, and she couldn’t bare to close it down. However, the cold made her bones ache, and she fancied spending her old age in warmer climes. Hence the job for Argus.

Somehow Argus survived the first week of Mrs. Parker’s nattering and nagging--mostly about trivialities, although she did instruct him on ordering new wares should they actually run out of stock (nothing, it turns out, was actually made in store). It seemed that expiration dates were something that Mrs. Parker considered to be more of a suggestion than a definite rule.

But after that week of barely holding his tongue, and attempting to look slightly less sullen than normal, apparently Mrs. Parker was satisfied, and so made her escape to warmer climes, leaving Argus to run the shop as he saw fit.

A less principled individual might have counted their lucky stars, accepted the comfortable (though not extravagant) paycheck, and gotten a good start on paring back the profitless shop’s opening hours. 

However, while Argus’s attitude towards people in general bordered on misanthropic, he was a stickler for his word and for a job well done. Thus, even though he believed the shop itself to be a waste of space, and his job to be entirely unnecessary, he arrived promptly at five minutes to nine, six days of the week, and left no sooner than 10 after five (the extra 10 minutes being the time for him to close up shop).

And really, this all suited him just fine.

His new paycheck allowed him an apartment of his own--very small of course, but entirely his. The shop’s lack of popularity was also to his benefit: rarely need he interact with more than a couple of people per day, and the rest of the time could be whiled away reading or in silent contemplation.

It was a stagnant life, but one he was content with.

***

The cat first arrived a good three months into his new career. Argus had just finished opening the shop, and was now perched upon the stool behind the counter, reading the Daily Prophet--just as his employer had been when he’d met her--when her heard a light tap upon the door.

“It’s open,” he exclaimed, not taking too much care to be courteous. That was another advantage of babysitting a shop that had no need to be profitable: customer service was in no way valued.

On the door came another faint tap. He sighed, put down the paper, and got up. Walking to the door, he began to speak, “I said that it is open, you can just--” and then he stopped, because he had opened the door, and there sat the cat.

Its fur was an unremarkable dusty grey, but its yellow eyes shone with intelligence as it looked up at him and mewed.

Well, he may not be fond of humans, but he was awfully partial to cats.

“You better not be part kneazle,” he admonished, as he moved aside and let the cat into the shop. It made a noise that in a human would be called a scoff, but then padded inside.

For probably a full minute, he just looked at it, and it looked back. But then, because it didn’t seem to be doing much, he returned to his stool and his newspaper.

***

After only a few days, they developed a pattern.The cat did not show up every day, or at a consistent time, but when it did, it would tap at the door, and Argus would let it in. Then he would proceed to ignore the cat, and go about his daily business. Often, it would stay out of his sight, presumably napping or prowling in one of the shop’s little-explored corners. Other times, however, it would without warning, launch itself onto Argus’s lap, scratch its face against his hands, and otherwise make a nuisance of itself.

But of course, because good things never lasted in the frustrating life of Argus Filch, his pleasant existence could not remain undisturbed. 

It was a Thursday afternoon, when a wizard in his late thirties barged into the shop. Argus had seen this type of customer before--demanding and never satisfied--so it was with great reluctance that he set down his novel and attempted to assume an expression of moderate attentiveness.

“Where is she,” the man demanded, loud and harsh, and Argus felt a spike of fear, thinking he was referring to the cat who had arrived a couple minutes previous, and was lurking at the back of the shop. But then the man continued: “I saw my wife come down the street. She must be here!”

Argus, of course, explained that there was no one else in the shop, and no he had not seen his wife. The man did not look pleased, but given that there clearly was no one there, it was an explanation he was forced to accept.

And thus he left, somber. Argus just shook his head and turned back to his book. He had just gotten into the flow of the story again, when a soft voice interrupted: “I’m really sorry about that. I just needed to get away for a bit.” 

Argus started, and then looked up. In front of him as a well-dressed woman, in her late twenties or early thirties. She wasn’t beautiful, but her smile was pretty.

“Where did you come from?” he demanded, shaken.

She looked uncomfortable, “Well, I was here the entire time.”

“No you weren’t. This shop is tiny. You couldn’t have hidden here.”

Fidgeting with her sleeve, she looked over his shoulder and answered, “I was...because I’m the cat.”

“You’re the cat.” Argus’s voice was flat. He felt betrayed, and then he felt silly for feeling that way. But what could he do? That cat had been the closest thing he had to a friend, and it turns out it wasn’t what he thought it was at all. “So, you’re an animagus, and you, what, pretend to be a neighborhood cat for the sheer joy of deceiving people?”

“No, I--” her face was red with embarrassment, “I just need to get away sometimes. That’s all. And you were very kind. I’ll be going now.”

And she walked towards the door, and gave it a little shove to open it.

“Wait,” Argus said. She had deceived him, but he didn’t want her to leave. No one had ever called him kind before. “You can come back if you want, as a cat, or, whatever. If you just need someplace to...get away.”

She looked surprised, “Thank you,” she said, and then walked out the door.

He didn’t think he would see her again. He was wrong.

***

Her name was Louise Norris and she was 31 years old. She had married a successful business wizard more than ten years her senior when she was just nineteen years of age. At the time, she had loved him.

But times change, and love cools--hers did at least--and she tired of the constant social gatherings, the keeping house, and the other countless aspects of being a rich man’s trophy wife.

All this and more, Argus learned from Louise when she visited him--sometimes as a cat, but more often as a human. He did not expect anything from her, but listened when she spoke, with interest, not judgement. For her alone, he had a patience that was unavailable to the rest of the world.

He didn’t know it at the time, but he was in love.

He had no illusions--she could not be for him what he wished. She was bound by obligations that she felt justified escaping for parts of the day, but she would be unwilling to abandon as a whole. She enjoyed a life of leisure, which was part of the reason--she admitted--that she married Mr. Norris in the first place.

Of course, a sudden end came without warning.

It was another Thursday afternoon, incidentally, and Louise was a cat that day, napping on the counter, when once again her husband barged in.

This time, however, he did not deign to speak to Argus. Instead, he directed his words to the cat, “I’m onto your tricks Louise--don’t think I’m not. You think you could hide from me? And with an unregistered form--how shameful. You’re coming home, right now.” 

He had taken out his wand, and was gesticulating with it. After his little speech, he pointed it at the cat, an unvoiced threat.

She, however, ignored it. With a meow, she got to her feet and leapt gracefully off the counter. Then, without an acknowledgement to her husband, she padded towards the store’s back door.

He fumed, his face turning red with anger, and then wordlessly he made a stabbing motion with his wand. 

The cat screamed.

Without conscious thought, Argus leapt towards her, bringing him to her chest, cradling her. Mr. Norris looked on, his face a mixture of disgust and satisfaction. 

“She always wanted to be a cat. Now she can be permanently,” Mr. Norris sneered. “And there isn’t even anything you can do about it. If anyone finds out she’s an unregistered animagus, then that is straight off to Azkaban for her. And that is a much worse fate than being stuck as a cat.”

Then Mr. Norris stalked off, and Argus never saw him again.

A few months later, the old witch that owned the shop where Argus worked died, quite content, in the Bahamas, and her shop along with the rest of her estate, was left to her children--none of whom were quite so sentimental as to keep open a shop that was such a blatant drain on their resources. So Argus was let go, with a month of pay to allow him to find another job.

Luckily, Hogwarts was in need of a caretaker, and pets were allowed.

***

“Is that your cat,” asked the stodgy old man interviewing Argus for the position. “What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Norris,” was Argus’s reply.


End file.
